Few genres present such bleak prospects as the medieval costume drama. Whether depicting devious court intrigue, the exploits of valiant knights or the majestic sweep of epic battles, these movies have to overcome huge hurdles to attain even some passable level of quality, too often marred by tedious plots, overwrought dialogue and a general sense of dreary fustiness. Much of this seems traceable to budgetary issues; the cost outlay of constructing these pre-modern worlds leaves room for only the safest of bets, which usually means stories that are either eye-catching and shallow or interesting but hideously cheap-looking (or some unholy negative combination of the two). There’s also the inherent griminess and generally unsightly nature of Middle Ages existence, with its mud, blood and wandering livestock, stone rooms and drab palettes, qualities which assure these films an added sheen of ugliness and force them to struggle harder in order to break through with audiences.
These factors may explain why The Pied Piper is perhaps the least recognized Jacques Demy movie of its era, or why a staunchly opinionated semi-musical starring Donovan as the Pied Piper of Hamlin continues to receive no attention whatsoever. This anonymity may also have something to do with the generally unclassifiable nature of the film, which is rated G but in no way seems intended, or appropriate, for children. Burnings, forced child marriages and black plague-related pustules abound, morbid window dressing for a gloomy tale of personal and political corruption. Yet despite its genre limitations and a total absence of the acute melancholy that defines Demy’s best work, this isn’t a bad movie, taking on an impressive array of social issues with admirable forthrightness. It’s not exactly The Devils, which was released a year earlier and made far better use of the period’s general grime-spattered nastiness, but it’s not uninteresting either.
Depicted here in a constrained style that shows the strains of a clearly lacking budget, Hamlin is a small burg run by a sleazy figure known only as the Baron (Donald Pleasance), who’s in dealings with the church to assure the final resting place of his not-quite-spotless soul. Less interested in heaven than avoiding the fires of hell, he’s commissioned the construction of a towering cathedral, with the express understanding that the entire thing will never be completed in his lifetime. The lower foundations have already been laid, but the price for the remainder of the structure is mounting rapidly, and the Baron struggles to balance his draining finances with making enough progress to appease the Almighty; one priest suggests a flying buttress or two should be enough to secure his passage to paradise.
There’s also the looming danger of the black plague, which in 1349 was reaching its gruesome peak in Western Europe. The tide of death encroaches slowly but steadily, as the town’s resident alchemist, Melius (Michael Hordern), and his crippled assistant, Gavin (Jack Wild), struggle to come up with a solution, a difficult proposition when labeling the plague anything other than divine punishment is considered heresy. All of these problems, in addition to church officials’ attempts to conscript new soldiers for the Vatican’s Italian campaign, lay the groundwork for a sinister plan. With the help of his bastard son, Franz (a young John Hurt), the Baron hatches a plan to use the town’s children as soldiers, buying them off with fake gold created by the alchemist, then pocketing the church’s conscription payments himself. The entire thing stands up as a forceful (if slightly shaky) Vietnam metaphor, continuing the film’s habit of ascribing all evil to money-minded adults.
This is where Donovan comes in. Clad in the character’s trademark piebald garb and a series of ridiculous hats, he spends most of the film strolling around the town, intermittently breaking into song. Carrying a suspiciously modern guitar (and employing some decidedly non-medieval song structure) he’s a honey-toned voice of the counterculture, eventually luring the town’s kids away from the nasty world of commerce, deceit and vice. There’s nothing sinister about him, even though he seizes children in lieu of payment, considering the Baron’s budding plans for the youngsters. All this leaves The Pied Piper as a fitting, if not entirely satisfactory, follow-up to 1969’s Model Shop, losing much of its delicacy and ennui, retaining the strong political focus and general distrust of authority.